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et you not say of me when I am old,In pretty worship of my withered handsForgetting who I am, and how the sandsOf such a life as mine run red and goldEven to the ultimate sifting dust, “Behold,Here walketh passionless age!”--for there expandsA curious superstition in these lands,And by its leave some weightless tales are told.In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;Impious no less in ruin than in strength,When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,Let you not say, “Upon this reverend siteThe righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer.” X Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this:How in the years to come unscrupulous Time,More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss,And make you old, and leave me in my prime?How you and I, who scale together yetA little while the sweet, immortal heightNo pilgrim may remember or forget,As sure as the world turns, some granite nightShall lie awake and know the gracious flameGone out forever on the mutual stone;And call to mind how on the day you cameI was a child, and you a hero grown?--And the night pass, and the strange morning breakUpon our anguish for each other’s sake!
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